


The Hitwoman

by TheEvangelion



Category: The 100 (TV)
Genre: Assassin Clarke Griffin, Assassin Lexa (The 100), Assassins & Hitmen, BDSM, Dom Clarke Griffin, Dom Lexa (The 100), Dom/sub, Dubious Consent, Enemies to Lovers, Eventual Romance, F/F, Interrogation, Lesbian Sex, Modern Setting Clarke Griffin/Lexa, Nipple Clamps, Orgasm Denial, Psychological Torture, Psychopath Clarke, Psychopath Lexa, Psychopathology & Sociopathy, Psychopaths In Love, Rape/Non-con Elements, Roleplay, Slow Burn, Slow Burn Clarke Griffin/Lexa, Smut, Sociopaths Falling In Love, Sociopaths Trying To Kill Each Other, Their Dates Involve Trying To Murder Each Other, Top Clarke Griffin, Top Lexa (The 100), Torture, lesbian assassins, lesbian story, murder fluff
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2020-02-14
Updated: 2020-02-25
Packaged: 2021-02-19 07:07:25
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 3
Words: 14,291
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/22706983
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/TheEvangelion/pseuds/TheEvangelion
Summary: Lexa is a clinical psychopath and a hit-for-hire assassin. Aroused by the idea of danger, she hires a dominatrix to sexually interrogate her and take it to the furthest reaches imaginable. Trouble is, her dominatrix, Clarke, is a clinical psychopath too with an unflinching desire for power, and when she realises that Lexa isn't just the usual clientele playing out a simple role-play fantasy, she decides that maybe she wants her job instead. It becomes cat and mouse, or maybe cat and cat, a downward spiral of them both trying to outsmart the other. (CONTAINS TORTURE IN INTERROGATION SCENES)
Relationships: Clarke Griffin & Lexa, Clarke Griffin/Lexa
Comments: 84
Kudos: 305





	1. Chapter 1

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Seriously, this contains torture and interrogation and will do in future chapters too, this is your third warning, if you read on and cry about it in the comments after I’m going to laugh at you.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Seri

Lexa awoke to a sore head and her good white shirt ruined. 

For a moment. For the briefest of instants. For the second before she realised her wrists were zip tied behind the chair, immobilised, numb from the pressure, the hitwoman was slightly impressed above her infuriation. There was a reason clients handed her the cheque book and told her to write whatever number came to mind… she was supposed to be untouchable, invisible, the queen of shadows, the go to woman when people and problems alike needed to disappear. Apparently someone hadn’t just been looking in her direction, they had been watching her, picking apart her cloak of invisibility thread by thread. Lexa had finally been caught, and the man responsible definitely wanted her to become stuck in that kind of one-upmanship.

It was obvious, really; the empty warehouse, the lack of showmanship, the absence of pride, the absence of violence. Whoever her captor was, it wasn’t sadism that tickled him, that much was apparent. This, the quietness, the space to sit with her thoughts, it was very much psychological. Lexa knew two things for certain; the zip-ties that secured her wrists behind the chair had been applied in such a way that she couldn’t use her leverage to snap them off. This was not his first rodeo. The second thing she deduced was that the sun was setting, and she had been here for at least twenty-four hours. Whoever he was, this was not a man who wanted to be rushed… he was savouring this.

These observations gave Lexa an immediate advantage despite her predicament because while she did not know the specifics of why she was being held here, what she did know was that men who were this meticulous _deeply_ needed to be recognised and applauded for their craftsmanship — Lexa was nearly certain there would be no quick hasty murder, which meant she had the commodity of time at her disposal to figure a way out of this. Lexa imagined him to be a slight man, a chameleon of sorts, most definitely unremarkable upon first glance. The kind of man an elderly grandmother wouldn’t shirk her handbag away to her other side when the elevator doors opened, the kind of man who could slip in and out of a place without so much as a sideways glance. 

Maybe this was something close to a love letter, maybe this was a man who wanted to impress her in a language they both understood. Lust was also a commodity that could be exploited. Lexa remained hopeful, still.

Still, whoever this man was — new romantic boy or not — Lexa knew she would now have to kill him the long way around if only to soothe her own ego. A bullet or knife would be too fast. A steam iron set to eco-mode on the other hand? Well, it would certainly be an interesting way to show him the scenic route of his own mortality once she got loose. Lexa was many things, a sore loser and an introvert who preferred her own company among the top end of the list.

“Ah, the bruiser is awake!” A chirpy and definitely _female_ voice greeted from the warehouse door.

Lexa said nothing despite her surprise, her stare fixed on the damp brick wall on the other side of the warehouse while her jaw grinded her teeth. After months of waiting for a sign… the game was clearly now afoot. She exhaled as footsteps crept around her immobilised position and suddenly became a tangible person to look at with big blue eyes, long blonde hair, and a victorious smirk on her face. 

God, she had a sweet spot for blondes. If it wasn’t for the current situation, the zipties, the abduction, the knife glinting in the woman’s hand, she probably would have been looser with compliments. The knife however? Well. The knife unfortunately prevented such trivialities.

“Are you a hearing woman?” The blonde spoke again, her brow furrowing at the silence.

Lexa said nothing in response.

An old hitman with eager lips who had found himself the star witness of a federal prosecution had gone to the trouble of warning her once that hit-for-hire wasn’t a career that came with much longevity. In fact, it was the last thing he ever said before the slash wounds on his arms finally bled out. It was important the job looked like a suicide. Lexa _loved_ the jobs that required the feminine eye for detail the most. Still, he had warned her one day she would find herself tied up and at somebody’s mercy, or substantial lack thereof, and the peculiar thing was that Lexa found the whole idea quite the turn on. Enough to have sought out a dominatrix some months ago who specialised in this sort of thing, at least. 

It took Lexa more than a little casual research to find an abduction and interrogation specialist, it probably would have cost less money and been easier just to put a hit on her own head and fight her way out of it the old fashioned way. But despite this being a roleplay, the physiological reactions were very much real. There had been no warning or much in terms of pre-negotiations, one minute she had been walking down Fifth tailing her next job and now… she was here.

The emotions, or rather lack thereof, well that was nothing new. This was more about exploring herself than it was about immediate sexual gratification, not that Lexa knew much about that anyway. This was just another means to an end for a little excitement now killing had become… _business as usual_. Besides, who was going to know the Queen of Shadows liked to imbibe in a little sadomasochism from time to time? Certainly no one who would live long enough to tell tales.

“Well… not much of a talker, are you?” The blonde pouted and twiddled the tip of her knife. “I won’t pretend I’m not offended.”

Lexa smiled politely but still said nothing.

“You realise I’m holding a knife?” She glanced down at her weapon, eyebrow craned by the oddness of the silence. “You’re being very rude.”

“You couldn’t spread butter with that thing.” Lexa scoffed.

“Catty of you.” The blonde didn’t skip a beat.

The dominatrix left her at odds with her experience and training. A successful career up until this moment had been based on the ability of reading people, facial expressions, speech patterns, involuntary movements, that sort of thing. Lexa found herself slightly at a loss trying to pick apart the woman staring back at her. There was no nervousness, no anger, no gaudy dominatrix routine, just overwhelming and abundant chirpiness as if they were two friends meeting after a long time apart.

“Ah,” The blonde smiled suddenly, nodding her head a bit. “Thinking of ways to kill me?”

“It’s one way to pass the time,” Lexa said coolly.

“Oh I just want to chat, don’t be so dramatic!” The woman rolled her eyes and straddled Lexa’s restrained hips. “I just want to talk about a mutual friend of ours… Jim The Fish ring any bells?”

Lexa swallowed and closed her eyes, relieved to hear the codeword and simultaneously disappointed. There was a tiny part of her that wanted this to be more subversive, that wanted it to be for real. The blonde’s fingers danced over the lapels of Lexa’s good white shirt during the interim of silence that followed, straightened them, pulled them a little, smoothed them down and then wandered up and over her shoulders as though she had all the time in the world. 

It infuriated the part of Lexa’s brain that craved a fight.

The woman grabbed her chin suddenly. “I don’t like quiet types,” she whispered with a narrowed stare.

“Can’t say I know anything about Jim The Fish,” Lexa lied.

“We can get to that in a moment.” The woman waved her hand. “I thought we could get a little better acquainted first…”

“Is that so?” Lexa’s breathing became tight and measured as the troublemaker sitting over her lap pushed herself forward slightly.

“It is so nice to meet you, Lexa Woods. Well… _officially_ meet you.” The woman jollily waved her knife over the apparent miswording. “You’re considerably more dressed than the last time we were alone together—” Lexa blinked hard at that, unsure of herself for a moment. “You should really make a habit of checking behind the shower curtain for intruders but I suppose that’s a moot point too.” The knife was waved again like a plaything to punctuate her point. “After all, if horror films have taught us one thing? It’s that you never know what sort of monster could be lurking behind the shower curtain, do you?” The blonde breathed it out as though it were a confession.

Lexa remained cool and collected, despite the fact that nobody in six years of doing this job had known the street she lived on let alone been inside of her city apartment. The blonde was obviously lying. There was no way, no way in hell, that she had broken into the apartment undetected. Lexa would know if her cover had been blown, she reassured herself of that desperately.

“You were in my bathroom?” Lexa lifted an impressed brow. “I didn’t… I didn’t know this would go that far.” She tried to remain unphased by the apparent pretense.

“Baby, you don’t want to find out how far I’m willing to go for a job well done.”

“So you were in my bathroom?” Lexa snorted in disbelief.

“Oh, and the one in Connecticut too. Nice pad by the way, it was difficult tracking down the money orders and wire transfers with all of the fake names you use but I like to know who I’m getting into bed with, if you’ll pardon the expression.” The woman gloated, and Lexa felt her blood run cool. “You must earn a lot of money to keep such a secret little property portfolio?” she mused with a sense of disinterest.

“You… you went to Connecticut?” Lexa felt her blood run cool.

‘And Ecuador too. Just an empty house down there, which means you’re either going there soon or hoping you never have to go there at all. Someone must be involved in some shady shit…” The blonde chuckled and fixed a serious expression.

“You really, really shouldn’t have done that,” she promised.

Lexa knew this woman was now already good as dead once she got loose.

“Not everyone has thirty grand to throw around on this kind of vice, Lexa. So what is it exactly that you’re hiding? What do you do for a living that requires hiding houses in Ecuador of all places?” The woman tilted her head curiously.

“Honey… you don’t want to know.” Lexa narrowed her stare. “But I can promise you that you’re going to find out the hard way once—”

There was a flash, a small glint of steel in the air and then white-hot pain in Lexa’s thigh where the knife sat buried. She cried out. The pain reverberated through her extremities, only growing more substantial the more she twisted and twitched the limb. The blonde just hushed and petted her cheek, making silly crooning noises that only made Lexa want to horribly kill her all the more.

“Quit. Quit it— _No_. Stop. Stop being a baby—” The woman placed her finger over Lexa’s shuddering lips. “I missed your femoral artery but next time?” She gravelly shook her head. “You think you’re the first person who realised too late they have something I actually want? You’re not going to do anything to me in retaliation, Lexa. All you’re going to do is be a good girl and give me some answers.”

“I’m going to take great pleasure in snapping your fucking fingers one by one, that’s what I’m going to fucking do.” Lexa mumbled and soothed herself slightly with the threat.

“Like this?” The woman reached behind the chair without a slither of emotion on her face and dislocated her pinky finger at the mid-joint. 

Lexa hissed and felt her eyes bulge out of her skull.

“My name is Clarke, we should probably be on a first name basis.” The woman smiled. “Because you and I, Lexa? We’re not going to be finished tonight until I get some answers. Now, would you like me to put your pinky back in place or are you… comfortable in situ?” She levelled a serious look.

“Put it back in,” Lexa conceded quietly and hung her head.

“What was that?”

“Put it back in, Clarke.”

“Still missing something.”

“Please,” Lexa whispered.

“Better.” Clarke instantly popped the pinky again and earned a muffled hiss.

“I’m guessing that Jim The Fish is no longer a safeword?” Lexa surmised calmly and felt her broken finger throb.

“Astute, Lexa.” 

Clarke chuckled and popped the buttons off of Lexa’s good white shirt with the blade, then cut away her bra too for good measure. The fact that she wanted her naked… it didn’t make sense, to Lexa at least. Perhaps that was the point. Perhaps this was still just a roleplay, albeit an exceptionally sadistic one. Then again that was what Lexa had asked for once she had found a contact on the dark web. Sadistic, unabridged, artful, _real_ interrogation. 

Perhaps she should have specified a few limits, the thought now occured.

“So what… what is this?” Lexa suddenly felt out of control, unsure of whether this was still roleplay or an actual interrogation, or maybe even both. “Who are you, Clarke?”

“Your worst nightmare if you don’t answer all of my fucking questions, Lexa.” She shot her a serious look and placed the knife down on the tray beside them. “What do you do for a living?”

“I’m a solver of problems,” Lexa answered instantly. “What are you?”

“A sadist, clearly.”

“No, not what you do for a living.” Lexa shook her head and blinked at the puncture wound on her thigh, in utter disbelief that she had been stabbed with that pathetic little prop of a knife, her mind racing as she tried to calmly articulate her thoughts. “I’m asking what you are. Sociopath, narcissist, good ol’ fashion psychopath, or have you not got that far yet?”

Clarke paused and narrowed her stare in confusion that she was being asked these things. It left them stalled, blinking, in absolute disbelief of the other. It was as though something wasn’t going to plan. Clarke had a look in her eyes as though Lexa wasn’t reading her lines correctly or following the stage direction… and there it suddenly was, Lexa realised.

This hadn’t just been planned, it had been drafted at least a dozen times, turned around in this woman’s head, the thing that no doubt kept her awake into the tender arms of dawn, put together intricately like a symphony that could only be played once, that had to be played perfectly. It was the symptom of a woman who, despite first impressions, took her work very seriously. 

Lexa almost felt bad for spoiling it, because she utterly empathised.

Although she did now have an answer to her question whether Clarke wanted to give it to her or not, she was most definitely not a sociopath, there was nothing impulsive or reckless about this. It left only psychopathy or profound narcissism on the table, which shouldn’t be an exciting realisation and yet it was, a tiny bit.

“Ah,” Clarke leaned back on Lexa’s lap and stared at her for a moment. “Your eyes dilated for a split-second there. Means you probably answered that question on your own, bud.”

“Clever girl,” Lexa felt she had earned that much.

“And you?”

“The same.” Lexa shrugged.

“I doubt that,” Clarke laughed and shook her head. “Psychopaths don’t tend to find themselves in these sorts of situations.”

“You’d be surprised. You’re here too, aren’t you?”

“I suppose I am,” Clarke whispered back with a sincere smile. “I don’t play well with others.”

“Me neither, I tend to be quite the introvert,” Lexa said sarcastically.

“You want to tell me what it is you do for a living yet?”

“Nope.”

She was already here, that was the deciding factor. Whether it was a real interrogation or still something vaguely consensual, she was already here. It left her with two choices; to put up a fight for the sake of putting up a fight, or to put up a fight for the sake of having this experience the way she initially wanted. The uncertainty… the praecipe of fear… it was arousing. She was already tied up with a broken finger and a stab wound to her thigh, what else was there to pre-occupy herself with? The fear of death? No. 

That wasn’t half as exciting.

“I’m bored of looking at your face,” Clarke huffed and reached for the black cloth bag.

Lexa thrashed her head as it went over, as her world became nothing but darkness and the smell of… _clean laundry_. She inhaled a deep breath against the linen material covering her face and thought about it logically, rationally, objectively, because why would Clarke go to the trouble of washing and laundering accoutrements to the crime if she wasn’t in fact a dominatrix? This… this was still a roleplay. It had to be. The realisation made Lexa wetter.

She was left like that for an hour or so, and she had no doubts that the dominatrix was sitting some feet away doing little more than watching and picking her apart in the same way Lexa wanted to pick her apart in turn. Lexa was left to her own thoughts and while that was supposed to be psychological torture on some level, it wasn’t. Lexa merely bided the time calmly, thinking, not thinking, wondering how she would kill Clarke once she got loose. 

She hadn’t really thought about that when she first paid for this service, that she would inevitably have to kill the dominatrix afterwards. Killing… that used to be fun. It used to be a sacred, special, particular kind of symphony that could only ever be played with the victim once and therefore had to be savoured on a moment to moment basis. It still was all of those things, Lexa supposed, but now it was also her work day, her daily grind, her paycheck, with little to no room for creativity, and some of the joy had since been lost because of those reasons.

She imagined she would very much enjoy killing the little troublemaker once this was all over with, and truth be told, it was a fun way to bide the time. And so Lexa did nothing but that and remained a picture of calm, unspeaking, unwavering, unbothered by the broken finger or the dripping wound on her leg. A bag over her head and her arms fastened behind the chair, she still felt the most powerful woman in the room.

Some time had passed and she didn’t hear Clarke move at all. The sharpness of steel suddenly bit into her nipples, and Lexa remembered that she was still topless.

“Fuck!” She hissed and shifted in the chair.

She was unable to see what was attached to her nipples but she felt out the sensations and painted a picture in her mind of what was happening to her. The bite of steel wasn’t hard or heavy enough to be jump starter cables, and she couldn’t feel the long slender piece of wood against her chest that would suggest a coat-hanger. She inhaled a deep breath and felt a long, light chain of metal move against her breastbone. They were nipple clamps, albeit painful ones.

“Who are you, Lexa Woods? What do you do for work?” Clarke asked calmly.

“Things that would rattle your delicate sensibilities,” Lexa retorted.

The clamps were tugged sharply. It sent white hot pain through her breasts and down into her stomach, swirling into a strange and new sensation until all Lexa could do proficiently was hiss.

“It will hurt more after they come off and the blood rushes back to your nipples you know,” Clarke whispered against her ear and slowly let go of the metal chain. “Ripping them off now? It would be a mercy. No, far better to let you suffer the hard way around...”

Lexa felt the chain against her chest jostle as though something were being fastened to the clamps. Then she felt it. The sudden heaviness, the unrelenting pressure, the smooth piece of weighted metal swaying into her breastbone. She hissed and tried to lean forward, then backwards into the chair, seeking a comfortable position and unable to find one that relieved the pressure.

“The weights hurt, right?” Clarke chuckled and slapped her breast, hard. “You don’t want to know how many of those little fuckers I brought with me, Lexa.”

Lexa inhaled a deep breath against the loose dark bag, “There’s only so many weights you can put on this thing before it falls off. I’m not worried, it will give out long before I do.”

She felt a hand slip between her thighs and press against her cunt through her trousers.

“I wasn’t planning on using them all on your nipples.” The hand slipped away from her cunt again, and Lexa shivered at the threat. “So what is it you do for a living, baby doll?”

“I’m an Appalachian farmer.”

The bag prevented Lexa seeing the punch coming, and so there was no bracing for it, no instinctive clench or dodge. The closed fist smacked her in the cheek and spun her head to the side, and all she could do was grumble indignantly into the throb of her face and the soreness of her twisted neck. When she got loose, this girl was absolutely going to die, painfully and horrifically.

“What do you do for a living, Lexa?”

“I’m a special needs nurse in a doggy daycare.”

It earned another weight on her nipple clamps, and that was by far much harder to deal with than the punch or even the stabbing for that matter. Fuck, her nipples throbbed. It was unpleasant, it was difficult, it was arousing, and it was humiliating, and Lexa did not know she was capable of the latter. Feelings as reductive as humiliation and embarrassment were traits of the common ancestor, and she was supposed to be above that. But the clamps grew heavier and swayed on her sore throbbing nipples and it was enough to make her whimper. She wished for another stabbing, for another broken finger, for the kind of pain that made her brave instead of… this. A weak, whimpering, wet little toy at somebody else’s disposal.

“What do you do for a living, Lexa?” The question came again, calmly.

Lexa inhaled and collected herself, lifting her head up despite the bag over her head preventing a view of anything worth watching. It was the sentiment that mattered. The staunchness. The stiffness. The refusal to be bested. She inhaled and tried to formulate an articulate thought.

“I’m a mechanic, but I only work on tiny, tiny matchstick cars. It doesn’t pay much but it’s honest work—” She lost her breath as another weight was fastened to the nipple clamps. “Fuck! Fuck! Fuck!” She hissed and shifted uncomfortably in the chair.

“What do you do for a fucking living, Lexa?” Clarke became annoyed.

“Fine! Fine you win.” She hissed. “I’m Michael Buble’s back waxer.” Lexa clenched her eyes and waited for more pain.

It didn’t come.

“Let’s play a little game,” Clarke suggested with a long, fed up sigh.

“Jenga?” Lexa became amused with herself.

“Something way more fun,” Clarke retorted, and Lexa heard her pick up the knife off the tray. “You’re clearly pretty determined on making my life difficult, so let’s make yours difficult too.” 

The knife cut down her zipper, tattering the fabric in every direction until the trousers could be ripped off without removing her restraints, then her underwear was next. She paused and inhaled a deep breath, naked and aware this made her far more vulnerable. It pissed her off to no end because she hardly had a spare set of clothes. Now, she was going to have to kill the girl and steal her pants for good measure. She prayed to all the gods she didn’t believe in that Clarke was a 28 waist too. And this was how she distracted herself from the reality of her situation, with funny little amusements to hide the quiet, tempered fear she was quickly becoming acquainted with.

“I’m going to ask you questions and if you tell me the truth, Lexa, I’ll give you something that you want. But if you lie to me…” Clarke made a noise as though that would be a terrible, unthinkable idea.

“How will you know if I’m telling the truth?” Lexa didn’t expect any sort of serious response.

The bag was snatched off her head, it took a moment for her eyes to adjust to the light. When they did she found Clarke staring down at her with a calm, unbothered expression. She wasn’t excitable, apparently. Lexa didn’t know why she expected anything else.

“The dilation of your pupils, inflection of your voice, hesitation, perspiration, plus all the other little things you can’t control but so desperately believe you can,” Clarke said with a smile.

“Special ops training.” Lexa closed her eyes and realised there was much more to this dominatrix than she was apparently willing to give her credit for. “How does an ex-soldier become a dominatrix, out of curiosity?” Lexa peered intently at her.

“Much worse than that.” Clarke calmly kneeled down and separated her thighs. “Former doctor. It means I know the body inside out, exactly how much pain you can take and how much adrenalin I need to give you in order to provide you with a little more pain on top of that for good measure.” Her blue eyes found the puncture wound dripping and leaking blood. “Looks sore. That’s going to need stitches, by the way.”

“Oh well fucking thank you for your expert opinion Nurse Jackie I didn’t realise—” Lexa lost her breath in a different kind of way.

She blinked and looked down between her legs, watched the troublemaker softly rub a thumb over the hood of her clit. Clarke did it slowly, achingly slowly, almost as though she didn’t care whether it turned Lexa on in the slightest or not. Clarke suddenly smiled.

“You’re blushing,” she whispered.

“I’m vasodilating, it’s different.” Lexa hid behind the science.

“You’re wet is what you are,” Clarke chided and lifted her fingers up to prove her point, a moment later she placed them back at her cunt and stroked her softly again. “I’ll show you how to play the game. You’re going to love it, trust me.” She laughed as though the cards were already loaded.

“Before we do that… the clamps are starting to sting quite a bit…” Lexa cleared her throat and didn’t want to give the unabridged truth, that all she could feel was white hot blinding pain through her breasts every time she moved. “Would you— _you know_.” She glanced down at the clamps and didn’t expect to receive any mercy.

“Very gently remove them?”

“Yes.”

“You’re forgetting something.”

“Yes Clarke, take the fucking clamps off my tits.”

“Still missing something,” Clarke lifted the thumb off her clitoris.

“Please,” Lexa whispered shamefully.

She waited for the obvious punchline — for the blinding agony of Clarke ripping them off in one foul swoop.

It didn’t come.

“This is me offering you an olive branch.” Clarke removed the weights first. “This is me showing you that if you give me what I want… I’ll play nicely. If you think you’ve seen me be mean spirited yet, you haven’t.” Lexa hissed as the first clamp came off her nipple.

“And the other!” Lexa hissed harder as Clarke hesitated with the second.

“Woopsie.” Clarke snatched it off with a hard flick of her wrist, unbothered by the loud guttural sob. “You didn’t say please so the olive branch snapped.” She shrugged.

“You’re going to regret that,” Lexa mumbled and closed her eyes, hissing and grunting into the pain of blood rushing back to her breasts. “Trust me, you got yourself in the deep end.”

“Do you want me to stab you again?” Clarke eyed the knife. “Remember what happens to bad girls who make threats?”

“No threats,” Lexa swallowed obediently. 

_Just promises_.

“Good girl,” Clarke tempered a smile and glanced down between her captive’s thighs. “Let’s give you an easy one. What did you eat for breakfast this morning?”

“I didn’t eat anything,” Lexa told the truth. She inhaled a deep breath as Clarke’s fingers pushed inside of her slowly.

“Good girl. Tell the truth and we won’t have any problems. What did you want to be when you were ten years old?”

“I don’t… I don’t remember.” Lexa held her breath and felt two fingers slowly come to a stop inside of her cunt. “Fine! I wanted to be Aileen Wuornos,” she grumbled.

“You’re telling the truth, which is both good and horrifying,” Clarke barely blinked.

“I don’t think you’re in a position to judge anyone, Clarke—” Lexa lost her breath. The troublemaker curled and stroked inside of her wet cunt and softly rubbed her clit for good measure.

“Do you smoke?”

“No,” Lexa tested the water.

“You’re lying,” Clarke instantly took her fingers out and slapped her in the face. “Do you smoke?” She asked again, frustrated.

“Sometimes,” Lexa groaned and caught her breath.

“Do you have a girlfriend?”

“No.”

“A boyfriend?”

“Definitely not,” Lexa scoffed.

“The last time you did a nice thing for the sake of altruism?”

“Never.”

Clarke began to fuck her again, slowly, fingers pressing and curling into that one spot that made Lexa groan.

“You’re getting the hang of this,” Clarke blew a piece of hair off her face. “Do you believe in luck?”

“No.” Lexa peered right at her. “Do you?”

Clarke smiled at that. “No,” she said.

Lexa could tell she was lying.

It went on for hours, banal questions, a small contained history of them both. The favourite city she ever visited, the foods she liked, the ones she didn’t, sports teams, political opinions or rather a substantial lack thereof, everything and nothing. Sometimes she lied, which earned a hard, painful pinch of her clit or a punch that winded the air out of her, whatever the troublemaker preferred. Most of the time she told the truth, and Clarke took her right to the edge of her own sensibilities with fingers softly rubbing her clit and curling right into that one spot that made her thighs shake.

Hours it lasted for, and still Clarke didn’t let her cum. Lexa was allowed to come close, so close that she could taste the edge of her orgasm, but then Clarke would ask what she did for a living and… it would stop and start all over again.

Sweating, heaving, trembling, desperate for an orgasm in a way she had never felt capable of before, Lexa choked on her own whimpers and felt Clarke begin to fuck her faster. She groaned, eyes clenched shut and teeth sat on the edge of each other.

“So wet and tight for me,” Clarke purred, and Lexa blushed with humiliation. “It’s not so hard, Lexa. Just… tell me what your work day looks like?” She rubbed her clit faster.

“It’s… it’s not as simple as that. Every day is different, the place, the people, all of it—Jesus Christ!” Lexa cried out and felt her hips snap forward into the mouth kissing and licking her folds.

“So… you’re either an air hostess or it’s a little more interesting than that?” Clarke kissed and nibbled and still didn’t let her cum, not yet at least.

“We prefer the term sky liaison.”

Clarke brought her mouth away from her folds but kept her fingers moving inside, curling, slowing, quickening, teasing her captive to the maddest edges of reality. It was a warning, it was her saying in so many words, “I know you’re lying but we’re getting close to the truth…” and, truth be told, Lexa was grateful that they weren’t stopping and starting all over again. She was tired, she was beyond aroused, and she was starting to crack.

“It’s more interesting than that,” Lexa slackened with exhaustion.

“Why do you need hiding houses?” Clarke pushed on.

“I don’t because I’m very good at my job, they’re just a contingency for a bad day in the office.”

“So you have an office?” Clarke leaned forward and kissed her aching wet cunt again.

Lexa bucked against the chair and lost her train of thought. “Yes. _No_. It’s… I have a way for customers to contact me but it isn’t a brick and mortar headquarters.” She groaned and felt herself start to unravel. “Please let me cum,” she whispered and clenched her eyes. “Please, please, please…”

“Not yet,” Clarke sucked her clean one last time and pulled away. “How much do you make?”

“It varies.”

“After tax?”

Lexa laughed at that, exhausted and too far beyond herself to find it obtuse.

“Ah,” Clarke smiled. “So what you do is illegal then?”

“Does that turn you on?” Lexa opened an eye.

“Not particularly.” Clarke became mirthless. “How much do you make?”

“I don’t know… maybe a hundred thousand?”

“Oh.” Clarke blinked and was apparently disappointed that it was the truth. “I thought… I guess I thought it would be more than that?”

“A month.”

“Oh!” Clarke laughed and became interested once more. “A hundred thousand a month, huh?”

“I don’t do my job for the money if that’s what you’re getting at.”

“It is what I’m getting at.” Clarke added another finger, which snatched the air out of Lexa’s lungs and left her stuck on the cusp of her next breath. “So, an exciting and very much illegal job, hiding houses all over the place, more money than you apparently don’t know what to do with if the decor of your apartment is anything to go by…” Lexa rolled her eyes at the insult despite her predicament. “Why do you do your job if it isn’t for those reasons?”

“You wouldn’t understand,” Lexa whispered.

“Try me,” Clarke challenged.

“The finality of it, maybe?” Lexa blinked and actually wondered what the truth was herself. “The sacredness of it, the power of it, because it’s the thing I do best in the world.”

“You know what I’m going to ask, Lexa.” Clarke leaned forward and traced her mouth over her vulva, barely kissing, barely licking, almost promising that she would if Lexa just gave in. “Tell me what I want to know and we can stop.”

“You already know the answer, Clarke.” Lexa clenched her eyes shut and wanted to give up the fight, she just didn’t quite know how to.

The mouth swiped and circled and danced and sucked and licked and… Lexa could hardly breathe. She moaned, trembling, her hands clenched, her entire body tight, taut and ready for an orgasm.

“Tell me,” Clarke ordered into her cunt and grabbed her legs. “Give me what I want, Lexa.”

“I’m hit for hire!” Lexa gasped and bucked into her mouth. “I’m a hitwoman, I’m a gun, I’m a fixer.” She hissed and waited for her reward.

Clarke pulled away. Lexa bucked and groaned, and despite her best efforts, the restraints stopped her hips from following. She whimpered, broken, heaving, trembling and desperate for an orgasm in a way she had never felt before. When she opened her eyes again, Clarke was staring back at her with big baby blues, filled with surprise and amusement. It left them stalled, heaving, staring into the disbelief of the other.

“You’re telling the truth…” Clarke seemed shocked.

“What did you think I was?” Lexa balked and stared down between her legs at their unfinished business. “A fucking Younique sales representative?!”

“An accountant.” Clarke stalled and shook her head. “Money laundering, cleaning assets for the mob maybe, I thought— _Well_. A hitwoman is certainly a first…” She laughed slightly.

“Are you going to… you know…” Lexa glanced down between her legs.

Clarke just smiled and reached down, leaning forward into Lexa until their chests were resting against one another, fingers pushing back inside her cunt and warm cheek resting against the cool sweat of her own.

“So there’s a market for female assassins?” Clarke whispered against her ear.

Lexa scoffed and tried to ignore it, she tried to find her rhythm again.

“Women are invisible.” She couldn’t help herself. “Women never get their hands dirty, they don’t run drug cartels, handle racketeering fronts, or kill people in the dead of night. So if a woman grows a set and decides to do just one of those things…”

“Nobody bothers to look in her direction.” Clarke smirked.

“Bingo.”

“And your customers?” Clarke touched her slowly, expertly, but never enough to send her over the edge of an orgasm.

Lexa sighed and gave in. It didn’t matter anymore. It was all roleplay, character work on the dominatrix’s part, and she deeply believed she was the only real apath in the room, still. As soon as Clarke cut her loose… well, there wouldn’t be any surviving witnesses. So what did it matter if she told the truth, just for once, if only for the sake of telling the truth? It didn’t.

“Phone calls mainly, I keep a burner phone for my regulars.” Lexa moaned and then grew quiet as the fingers inside of her cunt began to work her up again. “And the newspaper listings. Always an ad for a 2004 Honda Accord, always with a ding in the front passenger door—” She lost her breath as the orgasm crept up behind itself and started to build.

“What if it’s really just a Honda Accord?”

“Then I guess I’m the proud new owner of a fucking sedan!” Lexa hissed and clung on for dear life.

The fingers suddenly pulled out and left her achingly empty and still, without an orgasm.

“What the fuck!” Lexa snatched her stare up to the gleaming, pleased smile.

“You have been so helpful, Lexa, thank you for that.” Clarke bit her bottom lip and glanced to the simple Nokia phone on the tray, laid out neatly among the contents from Lexa’s briefcase. “Would it be that phone right here, by any chance?” She pointed to it.

“What the fuck are you—”

“See, I figure that assassins must be pretty expendable. Live by the sword, die by the sword, right? But you…” Clarke grew quiet and thought about it. “They must come to you _because_ you’re a woman, the only woman who does your job, which makes you an indispensable asset. Well, up until now...” Clarke smiled.

No.

She can’t.

_She wouldn’t._

“Don’t even think about it,” Lexa hissed and felt her eyes bulge. “You think it’s as easy as picking up the fucking phone and playing substitute teacher? I know dangerous people, you fuck with me and—”

“You said you were an introvert, you said that you didn’t play well with others.” Clarke interrupted and stared down at the phone in her hand. “You were telling the truth, which means you don’t have anyone who cares enough about you to cause problems. I take your job, I charge a little less to sweeten the deal, everyone wins.”

“You understand the job is killing people, right?” Lexa stated the obvious.

Clarke just smiled.

Lexa suddenly understood. She understood that Clarke really was a psychopath, and she understood that the first hit would be her. _It had to be her_.

“You don’t have the stomach for it.” Lexa sat straighter and felt her heart begin to pound. “You wouldn’t.”

“For what it’s worth…” Clarke stopped, and her blue eyes gleamed with what seemed to be a genuine sort of fondness. “Well. This was actually a lot of fun and it’s not often I have fun, you were a good sport,” she said, dourly.

“You will sit here one day,” Lexa promised. “Hit for hire isn’t a career that comes with much longevity.”

“Goodness.” Clarke shook her head and looked away for a moment, but then she stepped forward and looked at Lexa again, far more sobered this time. “You really are growing on me.” 

There was something fast and dignified about the way the knife punctured her throat. It was without malice. It was done with the utmost respect. It was as gentle a farewell as creatures such as either of them were ever entitled to, and, on some level, Lexa’s only criticism was that the little usurper hadn’t at least made her cum before the grand finale. This… this was just rude.

She felt heavier, as though she were slipping inwards, as though she were becoming so tiny and small that she was drowning inside her own body, but she sat there, tense, above it all, refusing to be small in any true sense of the word, well aware her body would give out first, because such was the condition of apex predators.

The warmth of exhaled breath was felt on the wet skin of her neck, and then it lingered against her ear for just a moment.

“You won’t get very far but I’ll give you your hands back.” Clarke snipped the zip-ties behind the chair. “Finish yourself off, it’s the least I can do.” She chuckled and made a break for it.

Lexa instantly clutched the wound, fingers desperately trying to pinch off the warm gush. She crawled and pushed and clambered towards the tray, well aware if she could just get the briefcase down she could get her other phone from the inside pocket. Clarke was right, she was telling the truth, she didn’t play well with others and there was no one particularly fond of her enough to come in her hour of need...

Except for one person.

“Come on!” she hissed at herself and reached for the briefcase, struggling, body giving up on her moment to moment.

The briefcase was _just_ out of reach.

[For more stories and future chapters of The Hitwoman ahead of the curve CLICK HERE](http://theevangelion.tumblr.com)


	2. Chapter 2

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> If you didn't like the first chapter I guarantee you will not like this one. If interrogation/psychopathic dynamics are squicky for you, please don't read.

The hospital swirled with the constant mild steady of patients and doctors, orderlies pushing laundry carts, greeting one another like bus drivers on the morning route as they crossed paths in the hallway. The nurses stood parked around the department station with clipboards under their arms, some of them just starting, some of them going home, all of them rolling their eyes when it came to any and all updates on the woman in room four who incessantly pressed the emergency assistance buzzer for cigarette breaks and coffee requests through all hours of day and night.

It had been weeks and yet it felt a lifetime, an eternity, a never-ending prison sentence of magnolia walls, daytime television, and those tiny orange jello cups with the clear wrapper that never came off in one piece, a daily hell in and of itself. And nobody came to visit Lexa either — the woman in room four who simply went by Jane Doe, the woman who incessantly pressed the emergency assistance buzzer in search of cigarettes and coffee requests — the unfortunate lady who was found stabbed in the bad part of town and wound up seven pints of blood and a purse lighter because of it. _A mugging gone wrong_ , it happens. 

Everybody who had witnessed the aftermath of her injuries said how lucky she was that somebody found her in the nick of time and raised the alarm, how strange it was that her saviour didn’t wait for the ambulance or give a statement to the authorities. Probably an undocumented person just trying to do the right thing. Again, it happens. Lexa had her own suspicions about who exactly called the ambulance, although she kept her thoughts entirely private. Her version of events were kept as vague as possible for the authorities; damsel in distress, a man in black, a knife and then… nada. It was inconvenient in terms of building a profile. Lexa made sure of it. She didn’t need or want assistance from the police, Clarke was now very much her problem to solve. It was a problem she deeply felt could be solved too. Lexa was good at fixing things with her hands and Clarke… Clarke had a windpipe. 

The two would marry well.

It didn’t stop the nurses prodding about what happened between dressing changes sometimes, as though they were detectives in and of themselves, checking over stitches, remarking how lucky she was to be alive while they appraised flesh knitting itself back together too slowly for Lexa’s liking. 

The nurses would ask how she was doing, if she was sure there was no family they could call, if she remembered anything new for the police, if she needed anything. Lexa always said nothing, wanted for no one, asked for nothing but cigarette breaks, coffee, and the local newspaper with the listings. The last part always made the nurses raise a brow, but they always obliged, and the newspaper was brought down mid-morning once someone else was finished with it. 

There was not a single listing for a 2004 Honda Accord to be found in the back pages. For two weeks that was the order of things; restless boredom, a leg that refused to heal faster, knuckles white around the newspaper while she desperately scanned for some symptom that she hadn’t been cut loose. A Toyota Corolla, A 2005 RAV4, by the beginning of the third week Lexa would have settled for a Chrysler minivan, but there was nothing; no notion of a life waiting for her beyond these walls.

On the twenty-second day of her incarceration the newspaper came in the hands of a perfectly good reason not to bother opening it at all. Lexa glanced at her visitor, stood there in the doorway with the paper in one hand and flowers in the other, both so strangely small in his gigantic paws.

“Well good morning to you too. What have you come to bury? The hatchet or me?” Lexa asked calmly over a slurp of weak coffee.

“If I wanted you dead you wouldn’t be here,” Titus Molnar, head of the Hungarian crime family, glanced around the hospital room.

Titus just stood there and laughed after a moment, which would have been a peculiar sight to anyone else who knew him but for Lexa it was strangely reassuring. Titus was a big stern man, hands like shovels, always furrowing his brow, always talking in hushed tones with the underbosses who hung around him like flies. He was the kind of man that people didn’t look directly in the eye. The kind of man that people didn’t get on the wrong side of if they enjoyed breathing. Lexa was aware she was very testing in that regard.

Titus pursed his lips and resisted a smirk. “Lucky we found you in the nick of time,” he said too quietly for anyone else to hear. “I heard what happened from a few contacts in the days after the incident.”

“And what exactly did you hear?” Lexa craned a curious eyebrow and put the coffee down.

Titus made a stabbing motion with his hand. “Apparently you made a new friend,” he said, his cheeks bunching into an amused smile. “And as for me? I came to visit because I thought maybe you could use an old friend now the Collective have blackballed you—”

“Blackballed me?” Lexa’s eyes grew wide.

“The girl did good on her first two jobs. Nothing loud, nothing messy, and word on the street is that she charges far less.” Titus lifted his hands in a deep shrug. “As far as the Collective is concerned… you’re weak and past your prime.” Titus enunciated every bit of the insult as he stepped closer to the hospital bed. “You are… usurped.” He smiled.

Titus was here for business, because business was the only language creatures such as either of them understood. Lexa knew that, she just wasn’t sure yet how the business concerned her, especially given how their relationship had been left after the big betrayal, after she had walked away from exclusivity with the Hungarians and made her services available to the Collective. A big, big no-no in their books.

“The last time you and I spoke…”

“Yes I wasn’t pleased. I know that. Please, don’t be petulant about it.” Titus interrupted and folded his arms.

“You said you would skin my face,” Lexa scoffed.

“And you said, _not if I skin yours first_.” Titus reminded. “Time heals all wounds. You were very good at your job and I was very sad you decided to move on with your career.” He lifted his hands. “Now… we’re here.”

“And where exactly is here?”

“Well I’m just a boy standing in front of a girl, who was stabbed many times, asking if she would consider coming back on the books again?” Titus pursed his lips into a funny expression. “When you’re feeling better, of course.”

Lexa leaned back against the pillow and blinked. The early years, the ones spent running with the Hungarians, they were simultaneously the best and worst. The jobs were small and unimportant; people who knew things they shouldn’t, drug runners who had become too greedy, men who couldn’t pay their debts. But Titus was the first person who had realised that the invisibility that came with being a woman was a superpower in its own right, he was the first person who gave her a chance and Lexa was above taking that away from him. He was an excellent tipper too and had never once asked her to work over the holidays. It wasn’t all roses, it wasn’t all bad. It just… was what it was.

“They tell me you will be ready to go home soon.” Titus nodded towards the nursing station and placed a folded piece of paper down next to the coffee cup. “Get back on your feet and call me when you decide what you’re doing with your life.”

He turned around and walked back towards the door, flowers still clutched in his fat knuckles.

“Aren’t you forgetting something?” Lexa called after him.

“What?” He looked over his shoulders and followed her stare down to the flowers in his hand. “Oh,” he laughed. “These are definitely not for you, don’t flatter yourself.”

“Of course they’re not.” Lexa rolled her eyes petulantly.

***

Lexa opened the door and limped inside her apartment. It was exactly how she left it which struck immediate alarm bells. There was no sour, pungent smell from the chicken breasts that had been left to thaw in the sink a four weeks prior. There was no month long accumulation of leaflets that had been shoved underneath the door. The litter tray by the bathroom had been used which meant the cat, Fuzz Aldrin, had been coming and going. The latter was as relieving as it was worrisome, Lexa had thought the cat might have gotten himself into trouble over the last month while she was away. But, his happy inquisitive purrs as he prowled around her ankles and his fattened up hinds indicated he was more than okay, someone had been indulging him with plenty of treats by the looks of things.

Lexa grabbed the loaded 9mm kept inside the hollowed bible on her bookcase before she limped any further inside the hallway.

The kitchen and living room were checked barrel first with the breakfast bar used as cover, then the bathroom, the bedroom, the balcony, and the bedroom once again just to be sure. Someone had certainly been in the apartment, Lexa couldn’t shake the feeling. Things had been left so perfectly that it felt strangely out of place. Lexa lowered her gun with a sigh once she was satisfied the intruder was no longer here and trod back to the kitchen, well aware of who exactly had been in her apartment.

If she needed a more concrete symptom that her suspicions were correct, the troublemaker was apparently feeling particularly generous. Lexa found the post-it note stuck to the refrigerator door and felt herself utterly seethe before she had so much as read a single word. 

_I heard through a new friend that you survived — which is an unexpected and interesting development. Used your place as a base while you were in the hospital, hope you don’t mind. I replaced your groceries. Your cat is fat and disgusting but I’ve kept him alive and named him Big Bastard, he seems to like it._

_P.S: Kinda weirdly glad you survived._

_P.P.S: Your vibrator needs new batteries._

_Love,_

_Clarke xo_

Lexa screwed the post-it note in her fist and threw it across the room. To add fuel to the fire of her bad mood, she now only had a single possible solution to this problem. Her cover had been burned, her apartment no longer safe, her job rendered redundant, and the only out was the one she so desperately didn’t want to take, if only to soothe her own pride.

Nonetheless Lexa pulled the note from her back pocket and dialled the number.

“Hello?” Titus yawned himself awake.

“I reserve the right to work with other organisations.” Lexa looked to the cabinets, to the drawers, to the 9mm pistol, to everything and nothing. “I want a retainer fee, three jobs a month guaranteed, my fees and expenses covered.”

Titus just laughed slightly. “And anything else?” he asked.

“Do you still have the Chopshop?”

“Is a frog’s ass water tight?”

“I’ll pick up the keys in an hour. I won’t be ready to work for another month, is that going to be a problem?”

“No problem.” Titus paused. “Just one, small, tiny thing…”

“What?” Lexa pinched the bridge of her nose.

“The first job I’m sending you on is a complex one, much bigger than what you’re used too. I know you don’t work well with others but it’s a two gun job. You can go with Two-Teeth Tommy or—”

“No fucking way,” Lexa interrupted.

“Find me someone you’re willing to work with on this job or you’re spending two weeks abroad with one of the boys. Or, you know, starve out in the dark.” Titus sounded like he didn’t care either way. “It’s your call, I’ll be at the office in an hour and if you decide to collect the keys I’ll know what your answer is.”

“Bye,” Lexa hissed and resisted the urge to throw her phone at the wall.

She now had to move out of her apartment, ideally this second, and the only familiar place she had available to use as a base belonged to Titus. The Chopshop, as it was affectionately named, was a workshop where difficult problems were dealt with and, for now, it still remained a secret from Clarke. It was an old mechanic shop out in the sticks with no heating, no hot water, and no listening ears for miles around... the perfect location for making bodies more manageable or getting information out of a target before the job could be finished. The owner was long since deceased, which Lexa knew because she was the one who killed him, and that was perhaps rule number one of the smart business rule book — never accept a loan from the Hungarian mafia and then object to chopping stolen cars at their bequest — a lesson the owner unfortunately learned the hard way around.

That hit job had transpired not too far into the beginning of her career, and the Hungarians had taken no issue with her using the abandoned building after he was dealt with. In exchange, she gave them a more favourable price when work needed to be done. The Chopshop had since become a milestone in her mind, a talisman of the meagre start she had been given and what she had since grown from. It brought Lexa no joy that she was going back there, and the only thing that made it bearable was the thought of catching up to Clarke and showing her the unabridged breadth of her displeasure.

Lexa sighed and came to terms with her frustration. For the foreseeable future, until the troublemaker was neutralised, the Chopshop would now be her home away from home. She grabbed her pistol and the cat — now fattened up and full of miaows — and everything else would simply have to be replaced.

Vibrator included, she remembered the post-it with a scowl.

***

When Lexa had asked on that fateful first meeting whether she was a sociopath or a psychopath, mirthlessly, unbothered, totally assured it was one or the other, Clarke had found her interest piqued. It was like staring in a mirror, almost, and she found the steeliness quite the redeeming quality on Lexa’s part. When she had responded in confirmation, it was both the truth and simultaneously a lie — because in all honesty, Clarke had never really contemplated it before. She just… was what she was. Ruthless, assured, determined, aspirational, prepared to do the tough dirty work, all qualities that would land her a Forbes 500 front cover if she were in any other industry.

Despite all of that she was genuinely excited when news had reached her that Lexa had survived. She had no information about the hospital she was staying in, the name she was using, when or where she would be at any specific time. The uneasiness of it was exciting. The promise of another encounter desperately looked forward to on a deeply, deeply private level. Lexa had promised to put up a fight, and Clarke found the idea of a second round tantalizing. It was enough to keep her on her toes, looking over her shoulder, second guessing the clever one’s next move, and all of these things imbued her day with a sense of urgency and purpose. It was exciting. Clarke was indulgent enough to allow herself that much.

After the cheeky post-it note in the kitchen, Clarke imagined that the interest would be returned and reciprocated. It was a calling card, an invitation, a call to war in so many words, and she took great pleasure in imagining a wounded little grizzly sociopath brooding around her kitchen with big plans for a fight.

Another four weeks had passed, and there wasn’t so much as a ripple in the water.

There had been no take up on Lexa’s part, no pushback, and frankly it was maddening. It was offensive. It was enough to leave Clarke seething like a woman who had been stood up outside the restaurant on a second date. On her best days she reasoned that the assassin had gotten spooked and quit while she was ahead. On her more rational days, she knew there was no such thing as quitting while one was ahead for creatures such as them. The whole thing was above all things a clear trap, and still Clarke couldn’t leave it alone.

God, she wished she had left it alone.

When the newspaper headlines read that a newly-elected house representative had turned up dead — tragically stabbed in the throat during a mugging gone wrong and left in a warehouse by the docks — Clarke knew the game was back on. Only the Queen of Shadows would be ballsy and desperate enough to take on a job with heat and visibility like that. Only Lexa could possibly be brazen enough to stick a message inside of the hit and get away with it too. It was precisely that above all other things, a message — or rather a challenge. It was, in so many words, _come and find me if you think you’re brave enough_. 

Clarke understood that, and it was a challenge she willingly accepted.

It didn’t take long for Clarke to find out through a low-level contact who ran with the Hungarians about the Chopshop and Lexa’s history with it, a conveniently named place where people went when someone wanted them to disappear. It was a lead, one that Clarke enthusiastically felt put her at least four steps ahead of Lexa Woods.

And truth be told, Clarke didn’t realise it was too late until it was too late. She had trekked two miles on foot beneath the cover of early darkness toward the lone building down the road with unmistakable red gas pumps outside just like her contact had described. She was convinced she had the element of surprise… right up until a single barbed dart hit her in the chest from more than a hundred feet out.

The paralysis was almost instantaneous, the warmth and dizziness was coming more than it was going as footsteps from down the road grew closer. She tried to reach for her gun to no use, and so she huffed and kicked and moved like a wounded stag, dragging herself only a tiny distance before the tranquiliser took hold and rendered her completely immobile.

“Thank you for doing the hard part for me,” Lexa whispered and crouched over her, grinning a bit as she slung the dart gun over her shoulder. “I was getting worried that you would do something slightly unpredictable and I might actually have to come and look for you.” The words were chuckled out victoriously.

Fuck, Clarke wished she had just left this alone.

“Cat got your tongue?” Lexa prodded the paralysed pile with her foot. “It’s alright, I put you down with enough Telazol to stop a lion in its tracks. Stop fighting and go to sleep… there will be plenty of time to catch up once you’re awake.”

Clarke was reluctant, fighting the slumber with laboured breaths and everything she had until she couldn’t fight anymore. She faintly felt her body be picked up and thrown over a broad shoulder in a fireman’s lift, carried up the road with her slack head bouncing awkwardly against the dart rifle. Fuck, she really really really wished she had just let sleeping dogs lie.

Then, there was nothing but darkness.

Hours had passed by the time she came around, groggily, wincing into the bright light of the flood lamp pointed directly at her eyes. The pain within her body was unreal, was impressive, was the start of something worth taking notes over. The most palpable points of utter throbbing agony were located on her shoulder blades and the backs of her arms where meat hooks punctured the skin and suspended her off the ground like a car that needed work underneath. Clarke closed her eyes, unable to look at the uncontained joyful grin of her captor — which was by far the most agonising part of this whole ordeal. The absolute, uncontainable, pleased as punch, joy in her expression.

“So,” Lexa spoke first after a moment and flicked on the steam iron beside her. “What’s new in your life?”

[Find more here!](http://theevangelion.tumblr.com)


	3. Chapter 3

Clarke watched Lexa sit down on the steel chair with a content look on her face. She folded one of her muscular legs over the other and nodded to the accoutrements of her work, which sat lined up neatly on the mechanic’s metal roller chest beside her. Clarke swallowed and remained unphased by what was in store, by the promise of the rematch, all while the steam iron glugged and hissed. Lexa wasn’t in any rush to move things along. It wasn’t surprising. Capital murder was an artform to the Queen of Shadows — a lengthy creative process if her previous work was anything to go by, which Clarke had made herself well acquainted with in the weeks since their last encounter. As it turned out, Lexa was quite the connoisseur.

Clarke just inhaled and tried to ignore the pain, and the fact that more pain was all but promised.

“Well... someone isn’t feeling quite the _Chatty Cathy_ today....” Lexa posed it as a thoughtful acknowledgement.

“Just deep in thought,” Clarke whispered through gritted teeth — her body swinging slightly from the suspension hooks in her shoulders and arms — which only compounded the pain. “Wait.” The coolness of the breeze was felt in deeply private crevices. “Did you...” Her eyebrows craned with surprise at her naked body. “Well that is just completely unchivalrous!” Clarke swung slightly from the ceiling with the gust of her outburst.

“You don’t need clothes where you’re going.” Lexa didn’t even bat an eyelid as she reached over to test heat from the steam iron’s surface.

“I’ll take it you took my clothes to press them for me, thoughtful of you,” Clarke said sarcastically.

“Optimistic.” Lexa smiled and peered at the naked body with fluttering eyes. “I’ll press something alright.” She craned a cheeky eyebrow and glanced between the captive’s legs.

“Oh don’t you dare!” Clarke flailed a bit more and grew panicky, the agony pulling and tugging at her sore, immobilised limbs. “This is me safewording, Lexa! I safeword!”

“Well I really did not enjoy being stabbed multiple times, Clarke.” Lexa wagged a finger. “Consequences, consequences.”

Clarke became beyond exasperated. “You don’t get to pull out a fucking steam iron like Marie Kondo when I only used a vegetable knife on you! If I had known this would be the state of things I would have at least taken a steaming hot piss on you and cut a few fingers off for good measure!”

“Coulda, woulda, shoulda. I could make a joke right now about you not sparking joy, but I’m above that.”

“Fucking hilarious.”

Lexa grinned, her pearly whites beaming on show almost like a snarling predator from the sheer enthusiasm of her smile. Clarke suddenly noticed how strangely overdressed she was for the occasion. Her long dark hair was coiffed and salon finished, her make up carefully touched up, her manicure well kept. It made no sense given that she was staying off the grid. It was as if she had prepared herself for a date, for a deeply important encounter with someone special, and had gone to some lengths to do so too.

Lexa lowered her voice to a threatening tone, “I am going to hurt you in ways you didn’t know —”

“Why do you look like that?” Clarke interrupted, which was possibly not one of her brightest ideas given her current predicament swinging from the rafters by gristle and a prayer.

“Like what?” Lexa blinked.

“Pretty, like you got ready all special just for me.”

“What?” Lexa became defensive.

“Do you always get your hair and nails done to torture someone?”

“Excuse me—”

“Ah ah,” Clarke interrupted again. “It’s polite to return a compliment with a compliment. Christ, anyone would think you were raised by wolves.” She rolled her eyes.

Lexa paused and blinked, as if deliberating whether to hit her with the steam iron or play along just a little bit. Clarke hoped it would be the latter. She wasn’t used to relying on hope, such a false sense of buoyancy really, but here she was, being forced to hope and pray to gods she did not believe in because somebody had the _audacity_ to best her. It was infuriating, and it was impressive, and she hoped to god the steam iron was just for muscle.

“Well.” Lexa cleared her throat, as though she were building herself up to it. “I guess… I guess that you look nice too. I like that little tattoo on the front of your thigh. The coordinates are cute and tasteful...” Her voice trailed as if she hadn’t spent much time thinking about it.

“Thanks.” Clarke was surprised but grateful for the reprieve. “Do you have any tat—” Clarke stopped mid-question as she saw Lexa move for it. “No! No! _Oh don’t you fucking dare_ —Shit!” The scream was a long bloodcurdling noise that could wake the dead as the iron sizzled and hissed on her thrashing leg.

Lexa pulled it away and sat herself back down, unbothered.

The troublemaker let out the tiniest little whimper, her body slipping into shock to protect her from the horrendous pain. She craned her head forward with a long sob, aware that this was no longer as fun as she had hoped their second date would be. The skin was seared off completely when she opened her eyes and looked at it, the flesh red and burned in a neat triangular shape where a tattoo _used_ to be.

She had it coming — she knew that — but it didn’t make it any easier to process. For some unknown reason she thought Lexa wouldn’t follow through with any sense of conviction, that she had managed to endear herself too much to Lexa for any sort of real retribution. It was hopeful. It was silly. It was beyond naive. 

And Clarke suddenly realised just how fucked she actually was. 

This woman was more like her in all the worst ways possible than she previously accounted for. This wasn’t just a playful battle of equals... it was a war of sociopaths, it was untred territory, it was dealing with a creature that couldn’t be emotionally manipulated with any sort of ease and somehow that only made it all the more tempting to try. It was, above all things, dangerously exhilarating, and it only added more layers to her profound curiosity once she caught her breath.

“I really didn’t like being stabbed in the neck, Clarke.” Lexa reiterated her point once the breathing caught up with itself. “And as for getting me blackballed? Well, that’s a curling iron in one orifice of your choosing.” She lifted her brows, unimpressed.

“What is it you want exactly?” Clarke asked, desperately.

Lexa shrugged. “What are you offering?”

“To listen very carefully?”

Lexa inhaled deeply and picked up the steam iron again.

“Wait!” Clarke yelped and swung. “Mary Mother of fucking God! Wait, wait, wait!” Lexa paused with an expectant look, the iron gurgling and hissing in her hand.

“I’m just... trying to understand you.” Clarke blinked and stared into her cold, unfeeling green eyes. “I’m not throwing shit at the wall and hoping something sticks, we’re not doing that. I’m asking what is it that drives you? How do I… give you something more interesting than another day in the office?” Clarke glanced around at the well used workspace.

Lexa paused, her cold green eyes twitching ever so slightly. She huffed and put the iron back down for a moment, folding her arms like an exasperated teacher with an unruly, promising pupil. It was promising, but Clarke knew the facade could just be for show. Apparently, Lexa was quite the dark horse.

“The Interlevin AF10 — with all the bells and whistles,” Lexa answered after a moment, entirely serious.

“Ah, of course.” Clarke nodded. “And what exactly is an Interlevin AF10?”

“An act of God. Wireless digital temperature control, self cleaning, twelve adjustable shelves, a four compressor walk-in industrial refrigerator that could survive a nuclear fallout.” Her eyes brightened.

“That’s what you want?” Clarke blinked. “A walk-in fridge?” 

“That’s what I want.”

“Seems achievable.”

“And you?”

“And me what?”

“What is it that you want, Clarke?” Lexa inhaled and stared intently, her eyes carrying a weight of expectation for the truth. “Did you come here thinking you would bury me or the hatchet?”

When the dust settled, when the realisation sunk in that they were doing this for the time being instead of the steam iron, tight, taut, her sore and broken body still tensing, Clarke licked her lips and sighed, at a complete loss for an answer.

“Well.” The beads of sweat ran the contour of her brow. “You never called me back.” Lexa laughed, and then she picked up the steam iron again.

“I’m being serious!” Clarke hissed and made her stop. “I mean, don’t get me wrong I probably would have stabbed you at least a tiny bit more once I got here...” She rolled her eyes and Lexa seemed to appreciate the honesty, her hand lowering the iron ever so slightly. “But I just came for the sake of coming… I came because you surprised me and… it’s not often I’m surprised.”

“Huh,” Lexa raised her eyebrows.

“Sorry if breaking into your apartment was a bit much?”

“About that, you didn’t replace my eggs.”

“Sorry about that too.”

“I’ll live.” Lexa smiled, and Clarke got the hint that she might not. 

“So are you going to kill me?”

“Probably sooner rather than later,” Lexa said.

“How boring,” Clarke whispered and rolled her eyes.

“No, honey, what’s boring is how easily predictable every moment of you was—”

“Hah!” Clarke balked in disbelief. “Except for the part where I stole your job and cut your throat, right? Which by the way — in case you forgot — you paid me for the privilege, idiot.”

“If I shoved a curling iron inside one orifice of your choosing and switched it on… what do you think would kill you first?” Lexa leaned back and looked to the ceiling, to the cabinets, to the rusty hooks keeping Clarke suspended, deep in thought. “The shock or the horrific injuries themselves?”

“Point taken — the psychopath with the steam iron gets to make the witty remarks.”

“I’m going to ask questions and I have no interest in playing games or titillating you. It’s either the truth or the steam iron, your call.”

“Well that doesn’t leave me with many calls to make but sure, go ahead.” Clarke remained calm despite her predicament.

“Who trained you, after you blacklisted me but before I got out of the hospital. Word on the street is that you’ve completed four jobs so far without much mess.”

Clarke blinked and privately, beneath the staunchness of herself, she worried that Lexa wasn’t as proficient at deception awareness as she let on because the truth of it would be difficult for any narcissist worth their salt to believe.

“I’m waiting,” Lexa became stern.

“Nobody trained me,” Clarke said. “I just… followed the same formula each time.”

“Pray tell?”

“I just… did what you said?”

“What I said?”

“Yeah, it was easy. I just... became invisible.”

“How so?”

“I don’t… I don’t know what to tell you.” Clarke blinked and hit a wall, because the truth was that it all felt so easy, as though she had finally discovered the thing she was destined to do, and because it was so easy it became difficult to extrapolate. “Nobody looked over their shoulder in the dark cold night and saw me as a threat… none of the married men invited me up to their room after a few too many drinks and thought to let anyone know where they were and who they were with. Getting close was easy, killing them was even easier. I’m sorry I don’t have anything substantial to offer for your vendetta list but… I didn’t need any training, really.” 

“You’re telling the truth,” Lexa leaned back and rubbed her neck.

“You seem disappointed?”

She stared at Clarke with a strange, almost sad look in her eyes.

“I am, a little.” Lexa shrugged. “I don’t play well with others in any professional capacity but… you could have been fun, maybe. It’s a shame we had to become acquainted under these circumstances.”

“Baby, you ain’t kidding.” Clarke levelled a serious look. “You know it’s never too late to remove the meat hooks from a gal’s scapulas and call it quits. We could do that. I could write this off as a bad day in the office.”

Lexa smiled and closed her eyes.

“You got me blacklisted, Clarke,” she sighed a long exhale. “You cut my throat and stole something that wasn’t yours, something important to me. For us to chalk this up as even-stevens? I would have to do something unforgivable, something that could never be made right, and frankly I don’t care about you enough to find the thing you love and crush it in my hands.”

Lexa got up out of her seat and fetched something off of the metal roller drawer. It was small, was concealed in her hand, was nothing but a green cap poking out of her fist. She stepped closer and Clarke realised it was a syringe.

“Oh for fucksake,” Clarke closed her eyes, exhaled sharply, utterly indignant that this was all that would become of the great usurping. “How anti-climatic,” she complained.

“You expected more?” Lexa lifted a brow as she pulled the syringe cap off with her teeth.

“I expected your best work.” Clarke chewed furiously. “The hooks? The steam iron? All horrendous but second to none... this on the other hand?” She nodded at the syringe. “Pathetic.” 

“What can I say? You annoyed me the fast way round. Congratulations.”

“Well I didn’t want to say anything but you don’t have the bone structure to pull off loose waves,” Clarke lied just to be acidic.

“My bleeding heart...” Lexa frowned. “Any last requests?”

“Feel free to fuck my corpse before you bury me if you’re into that sort of thing.”

“What?” Lexa blinked.

“What?” Clarke realised it might have been a bit much.

“Did you just—”

“No.”

“Well alright,” Lexa looked away, embarrassed, unable to move past it. She shook her head and stared at Clarke again, “Did you _seriously_ just ask me to—”

“No, you filthy pervert!” Clarke lifted her chin.

“Oh, I’m the pervert?” Lexa nodded mockingly.

“Well hanging naked girls on meat hooks to torture them doesn’t scream well adjusted childhood, does it!” Clarke stated the obvious.

“Not girls!” Lexa pinched her brow. “Girl. One. Singular. There is no plural, don’t make this weird.”

“Oh of course, pardon me. Just a couple of girls catching up are we?” Clarke mocked.

“We can still do the steam iron?” Lexa nodded to the roller cart. “I’m not above burning your face off?”

“But it’s such a pretty face,” Clarke whispered, frowning at the thought of being maimed like that. “Alright, sorry, I may have overreacted a little bit. Please, go ahead and murder me with your little syringe of cowardice.”

She watched Lexa look to the ceiling, then look to the floor, exhaling, shaking her head, utterly exasperated and livid by the refusal to be mortal in the ways that counted the most. Death was terrifying, was perhaps the only thing that _truly_ frightened Clarke, but remaining staunch was a small platitude to take to the grave that made it all a bit more bearable. In some small way she had bested Lexa twice now, and that was something to be proud of.

“Hurry up before you get cold feet.” Clarke tilted her chin and offered her neck.

The long hypodermic needle was slammed into her chest, the contents pushed inside her pulmonary system, her lungs shuddered, pushed and pulled, hyperventilated slightly, which only made the few moments before her death incrementally shorter as a result. 

Clarke held her breath and blinked hard, staring into those ice cold green eyes for a symptom of... anything. But Lexa just pushed a small smile and waited.

“What was it?” Clarke felt her swallowing grow more difficult.

“Something fun.” Lexa turned around and grabbed her coat off the back of the chair. “It was nice seeing you again, Clarke. Good talk.” She put the leather jacket on and walked out of sight towards the door.

There was no kiss goodbye, no long victorious speech, just footsteps leading further away and then a door being unlocked.

“Wait, you’re not going to stick around?” Clarke shouted, panicked slightly as the door opened.

“I want to remember you alive,” it was said almost gently, almost lovingly, lingering slightly before the door finally closed. “The feeling of surprise? It’s a mutual one, Clarke. Thank you for keeping me busy these last few weeks.”

Clarke felt drowsy, felt her head become heavier, felt furious that she was being overdosed on opioids and shit ones at that if her lack of high was anything to go by. Clarke blinked and tried to stay awake, tried to think of something other than her furious infatuation because Lexa did not deserve that kind of permanency.

“You sure…” Clarke huffed and struggled to stay awake. “You don’t want to stay and wait with me?”

There was a pause, and then a boisterously amused laugh at the suggestion. Then, the lights were switched off and the door closed behind the victor. Clarke heard her lock the door, heard her walk away, hung there with her regrets for no more than a moment before the big sleep came and swamped her.

***

The sound of birds chirping and cars whizzing up and down the street greeted her ears as she stirred like a lazy half-slumbering animal. Once again, she was sore, was bruised, was wincing into the tenderness of her burned leg, but she was alive and that was more than Clarke had anticipated. Her throat was dry with inactivity and the room was too bright for her adjusting eyes. Clarke hissed and winced as her arms and shoulders attempted movement, forgetting and remembering simultaneously the the meat hooks.

“Ah, you’re awake.”

Clarke snapped her eyes open and looked to the man at the door. He was thin, middle-aged, bald as a coot, and she recognised him instantly. Anyone with a hand in anything remotely illegal in the city would, of course. He was _the_ Hungarian. He was the crime boss, Titus Molnar. And if the ancient seventies decor of the bedroom she was currently being kept in was anything to go by… she had just awoken in his family home.

Clarke swallowed and stared at him, unsure of how or why she was here.

“Relax, little bird.” He smiled and came in, dusting the wooden desk with his hand to perch on the edge of it. “You’ve been asleep for more than a few days, take your time.” He smiled a bit.

“I was dead,” Clarke blinked and ordered the events in her mind. 

“No, little bird.” Titus shook his head. “You were sedated.” 

“Sedated?” Her eyes widened.

“Well, not before you were punished a little bit.” He nodded at the bandaged thigh and the carefully tended shoulders that had been sewn up and seen to. “If you don’t mind me asking, what exactly did you do to piss the Queen off so bad that she... how do you phrase it... ironed you?” He chuckled with gleaming, impressed eyes.

“I think she was just feeling frisky.” Clarke winced as she sat up against the headboard.

“Hm,” Titus nodded slightly. “She doesn’t usually play so well with others, little bird, you got off easy.”

“Stop calling me that.”

“Then tell me your name?”

“Clarke.”

“Ah.” His lips fidgeted. “No nickname, then?”

“I don’t need one.”

“Me neither,” he agreed and looked to the sunshine beyond the window. “You’re probably wondering why you’re here...”

“The thought did occur, yes.”

“I need a job doing — a difficult one — it requires two people and Lexa wanted to choose her partner. She brought you here three days ago and said you were the woman for the job.”

“You’ve got to be fucking kidding me…”

The warmth melted off of his face until his expression was cool, pointed and entirely devoid of humour.

“I don’t joke about business,” Titus said sternly.

“Well how much are you offering?” The question made him smirk.

“Your life,” he said. “And even that much? Well, I can’t make any guarantees. If Lexa doesn’t kill you then the Collective just might if they find out you’ve taken side work. I hear they don’t take kindly to that…”

“You think I’m just going to go along with all of this because I woke up in Nosferatu’s spare bedroom?” Clarke chuckled to herself at the absurdity of it.

Titus laughed too, and Clarke suddenly felt offset and unsure of what was just so funny. He settled after a moment with an amused expression, his eyes wandering down to the bandaged thigh propped over the blankets.

“Lexa said you would have reservations about doing this job.”

“Oh did she now?”

“She asked me to pass on a message.”

“Please do,” Clarke folded her arms.

“Remember when she said she didn’t care enough to find the thing you care about the most and crush it in her hands?” Clarke grew pale and suddenly remembered the significance of the coordinates she once had tattooed before sentiments stopped mattering to her. Titus just smiled at the realisation. “Lexa found it.”

“She wouldn’t—” Clarke stopped and drew a breath too big for her lungs, completely at a loss, completely fucked, completely rendered human because of that stupid fucking tattoo. “Lexa… Lexa couldn’t do that.” She refused to believe it.

Titus laughed again.

“You clearly don't know her as well as you think you do.” He patted the desk and stood up. “I suggest you get some rest and heal. You’ve got a big job next week — and word of advice from an old man filled with regrets? Don’t get any stupid ideas. Lexa will have called in favours on this.” He turned and walked to the door.

“If I do this…” Clarke blinked. “Is that us fair and square, game over?”

Titus stopped and peered over his shoulder, lips forming a thoughtful expression. “Lexa is a cat and you are her little bird, Clarke. Just because it was convenient to let you live this time doesn’t mean she isn’t planning bigger things.”

“Well now that does sound exciting...” Clarke slumped back into the pillows and wondered how she was going to get herself out of this bumble fuck of a mess.

[Find this plus other content ahead of the curve HERE.](http://theevangelion.tumblr.com)


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